Letters for Ithilien
by Verok
Summary: Total Alternate Universe. The Riders of Rohan had never intercepted the Uruk-Hai, and Merry and Pippin had never escaped to Fangorn - leaving them pitched into Orthanc, at the mercy of Saruman, without help from the Ents - or indeed, from anybody.
1. To Hope and to Give up Hope

Letters for Ithilien: Chapter One

To Hope and to Give up Hope

Rating: PG-13 (for violence, gore, intense themes, etc.) May be upped to an R in the future.

Genre: Angst/Drama/Supernatural. Total Alternate Universe: the Riders of Rohan have never intercepted the Uruk-Hai, and Merry and Pippin have never escaped to Fangorn — leaving them pitched into Saruman's clutches, without help from the Ents, or indeed anybody else. 

Disclaimer: I do not own anybody or anything in this fic — they either are property of JRR Tolkien, the great creator of Middle-Earth, or they are property to themselves.

A/N: It is interesting to reverse one seemingly unimportant event in LOTR, and see the backlash it takes on its domino-effect occurrences. Indeed, if Merry and Pippin really had not escaped and run into Treebeard and his Ents, it would have been a totally different story for Saruman and Orthanc. Expect weirdness — I write my fics at 2AM in the morning.

And now, let the madness commence

Letters for Ithilien

To Hope and to Give up Hope

The crunch, crunch, crunch of coarse steel boots echoed throughout the countryside as the troopers of the Uruk-Hai army sped south under cover of the sprawling trees. As their clamor and clanging ravaged throughout the woods, birds fled from their perches, foxes and other land fauna scurried to the cover of their holes — even the ladybird beetle that sat upon the green leaf of a wild strawberry plant unfurled its wings and flew away in alarm as the creatures sped past. And at the very rear of the ugly convoy were huddled two tiny figures; ropes binding their lithe bodies, scars, blemishes and filth sullying their once fresh and charming appearances. They were the captured Halflings, now property of the Army of the White Hand.

Neither Merry and Pippin knew what was to happen to them, other from torture and a certain, unpleasant death. The ropes the held them were bound fast unto the point that they slit their delicate skin and were soaked with blood; and although their entire bodies ached, the pads of their feet raw and throbbing with every single step they took, every time they slowed their pace the troopers that held their leashes would simply give a hard tug, sending waves of sharp agony coursing up their forearms. They didn't even know where they were heading, let alone what was in store for them — and, in the name of good Ilúvatar, they did not even know why they were not simply killed off when the Uruk-Hai had first intercepted them at Amon-Hen, instead of being dragged off and submit to this torment. They half-heartedly wished that it had been the other way around — it at least spared them the pain, the misery — and, most of all — the fear that accompanied the anticipation. 

The one thing they did not understand was that, although they were being dragged and goaded along like chained cattle, the Uruk-Hai had provided them with food and water at every one of their stops. And although it happened to be coarse fare — meat, and some stiff trenchers that faintly resembled stale bread — it was enough to keep them alive, and for that the hobbits did not give any mental complaints about their weapons having been confiscated. It at least was a worthwhile trade — and they perhaps were going to end up living a bit longer than if they attempted an immediate escape, armed and all, and were promptly shot down by their captors. 

Nevertheless, it had been utter Hell the hobbits were pitched into. And utter Hell was perhaps the only adequate way to phrase the situation — if not still inadequate. In all their childhood years, living happily in the peaceful Shire, they did not once imagine that there existed, or was possible to exist, such incredible agony — such unthinkable misery. Compared to this, life was still happy for them even while they were trotting along with seven others in the very middle of nowhere — at least their Fellowship friends were still friends — still protectors — still kind and civilized. And they were safe, as long as they were together. But now, the only kind of aid they could stem from themselves, and bestow each other with, was purely metaphysical aid — sympathy, compassion, and their undying friendship. And even that, strong as it was, was simply not enough to avail the otherworldly torture that tormented them day by day, hour by hour, minute by crawling minute, for a time that seemed an eternity in their lifetimes. 

The Halflings could think of no crime they had ever committed that henceforth deserved such punishment. They did not even know where the other members of the Fellowship were, besides the ever-faithful Ringbearer, and his loyal-unto-death servantand of the poor Gondorian Prince, the very last they had seen of him was when he knelt, slumped, in the clearing of trees, three arrows of monstrous girth impaled into his chest, the orcs running, jumping, stepping over his fading body. They had turned their eyes to the Valar, and the Valar had averted their all-knowing glances — they had prayed to Eru Ilúvatar, and Eru Ilúvatar himself had forsaken them. Indeed, nobody, nothing upon the face of Arda, the world, could see themcould feel them, their tumultuous emotions, their coursing tearsand nobody was ever to hear from them again.

Merry and Pippin were going to die, and they knew it. 

"I am sorry, my friend," the voice echoed. "It is no longer within my power to aid you, or your companion — or anybody else."

Pippin stared at Boromir's shadowy form as he spoke his words slowly. The two were surrounded in white, ghostly mist — ah, such cold, chilling, biting mist — making his Gondorian friend appear as limpid and ethereal as a smoke-like wraith in the bluish lighting. A needle pricked at the corner of one of Pippin's large amber eyes, and a single sparkling tear eked its way down his pale face.

"But why?" he retorted, his voice coming in a shrill plea. "Why, Boromir? You promised to protect us. You swore to protect us. Are you abandoning Merry and I?"

The wraith of Boromir shook his head sadly, and his gray eyes shimmered — so lifelike, and yet so ethereally un-lifelike. "I have no choice but to abandon you and your companion, my dear Pippin," his voice spoke again. It was strange; for although his lips moved to the syllables of each word as it was uttered, the voice seemed superimposed to him, not spoken truthfully — as if somebody else, somebody who resembled him so closely, and yet differed, were speaking it for him. "I cannot help anyone."

"Boromir!!' Pippin cried, and he took off flying, sprinting for his form, hands outstretched to seize him — but ere they were about to make contact, Boromir vanished — or, ebbed away in an instant, like he were the reflection in a perfectly still pond that had rippled into a blur as a leaf floated down onto the water, disturbing the peace, marring the perfection. Pippin's arms hit nothing at all — and he stumbled back a few paces and gasped.

Where Boromir stood, there now appeared Strider. His self, if possible, looked even stranger than Boromir's — one moment it was sparkling and as sharp as reality, clear enough for Pippin to imagine the feel of his rough skin, or his dirt-caked hair — and the next moment it faded some, now looking just as ghostly as the former had — before it rebounded again and became solid in the swirling fog. He looked as if in a sitting posture; and his head was bent down, the shoulder-length locks falling about his face like a veil, staring into his lap. Pippin called out his name, and Strider slowly turned around.

"Master Took," he returned, and a smile momentarily graced his chapped lips.

"Aragorn!" Pippin echoed, and he fell down onto his knees. "Strider, Masterhelp us!"

Aragorn simply looked at him, and his fleeting grin faded. He shook his head, the gray-streaked hair drifting slightly as he did so. A sigh then permeated the thick air, before he parted his mouth, and a hand of his suddenly let go, the action followed immediately by a sharp, metallic ringing. Pippin saw that his sword, Anduril, lay — or, more like, floated — next to the Ranger now.

"I am not sure whether I shall be able to comply with your request," he said, and a slight resentment and melancholia tinged his wont.

Pippin felt himself grow outraged. "Cannot help us?!" he protested. "The purpose of a Fellowship is for its members to help each other!"

The Ranger shifted. "I _wished_ to help you," he replied. "I _wanted_ to help you. But I simply do not know whether I can now oblige my wants, my wishes — or your demands. I am sorry, Master Peregrin — but I must have time, and plenty of it, if you wish for my assistance."

"Time," heaved Pippin miserably, and more tears trickled down his face. "What time do we have? Time will be our undoing. Time shall be _my_ undoing. Every second of time that passes leads me closerI don't know what"

"I understand your desperation, Master Hobbit," said Aragorn. "But I have no means to give remedy to your desperation, or to quench your desperation. I fade, Peregrin Took."

Pippin jumped up to his feet and gave a furious sniff. "What do you mean, you _fade_?" he cried, with all his hobbitish vigor that remained in him. "Stop talking to me in riddles, Strider! Straight answers are the only things that may help me, and you _said_ you wanted to help me! _Why_ are you fading'?"

And indeed, at that moment, Aragorn faded, wordlessly, and vanished — this time, not blurred and drained away as Boromir had been, but, rather, blown away, into the dark distances of Pippin's hazy vision. The hobbit slumped down to the ground — or indeed, some sort of ground, as it was too mundane a feel to be considered solid ground — and he broke into convulsive sobs. 

A gentle _tap tap_ resounded in his ears, and he lifted up his honey orbs to see the two toes of a pair of boots, standing right in front of him. Two very pointed, elegant-looking toes. Pippin raised his curly-haired head, and he gasped anew, the tears stopping their welling inside his eyelids, as he looked upon Legolas Greenleaf in all his elven glory. 

"Pippin," cooed the Prince — and this time the voice of the phantom sounded as true and believable as if he had spoken his name right next to him. 

Pippin could not answer Legolas — he could only gawp. Instead of Boromir's ghost, or Aragorn's half being, half ghost, Legolas looked completely sparkling, whole, and real — and he did not fade away from Pippin every now and then. His pale golden hair fell in a silky waterfall from behind his ears, and in his arm, he held — not his bow, but, strangely, Elessar's sword Anduril. His own weapon was slung behind his back — and it and its quiver were also accompanied by a deft-looking weapon that, in Pippin's mind, faintly resembled Gimli's axe. 

"Why do you carry Strider's sword?" asked Pippin, at length. "I thought he would not let anyone touch it."

Legolas's eyes closed with a flutter of black eyelashes, before they opened again. "I now carry Aragorn's burden," he answered mysteriously, in the same soft, wanton tone. "And Gimli's burden is also mine. I have become their epitome now, Pippin."

"But" Pippin croaked, and he wiped the wetness of his cheeks with a sleeve. "What do you mean, you've become their — their _epitome_?" He bounded yet again to his feet, and rose up indignantly at the towering Legolas. "Why do all you apparitions speak in such abstract ways?" he shouted. "And why can't you stop wasting your time, confusing and confounding me, when you could have considered coming to my aid? Boromir says he cannot help me, though I do not know why, Githoniel's eyebrows and Nienna's nightgown, and Aragorn says that he's _fading_. What is the meaning of this all, this trickery, this play?"

Legolas gave a sigh that seemed like cool, liquid water floating down on Peregrin's ears, so refreshing it was to hear. And yet it sounded so sorrowful. "They do not lie," whispered the voice. "Boromir is truly beyond aiding you, now, and Aragorn does fade, even at this very moment. And please do not be angry, dear Pippin," he cajoled. "_I_ shall come to you. _I_ will try to find you and Merry."

"And you will help us, no, Legolas, _mellon_?" Pippin pleaded, wild hope sparking in his heart. He drew a bit closer to the elf prince — so close that they were separated by a mere few inches — and he seemed so lifelike Pippin fancied to have felt an aura — a coldness — emancipating from his form.

"I shall come to you," Legolas echoed, ignoring Pippin's question. "And I will try to find you and Merry."

"Only find, come?" Pippin pleaded, now even more confused. "Why not help as well?"

"I shall come to you," the elf resonated, and at that moment his golden hair fluttered and swirled as if a wind had come upon him — and he, too, disappeared from Peregrin's vision.

The hobbit gaped, and whirled 360 degrees from the spot on which he hovered. "Oh!" he cried, and he was a bit both amused and bewildered to hear that his voice also echoed and sounded thick and coming from everywhere, just like Boromir's. "Confound it! What is going _on_ here?"

Amazingly, as if in reply to his question in vain, an entire phantom panorama appeared in front of Pippin's eyes. The mist had not subsided; but the glow that illuminated the scene was now a warm gold, and the ground grew solid under his large hobbit feet. He stood in a large room, both wide and long, lofty and upheld by massive pillars; and upon either side of him a great number of people, some clear, some blurred, dressed in flowing gowns and robes, sulked, walked and skulked, in a drifting fashion as if they had no purpose in life but to wander. And at the far end of the room was a great chair, a throne beaten out of gold, under a jeweled canopy — and a white figure, adorned with a white staff whose tip glowed, sat upon it. He was old, bearded with hair as snowy as his garments — and he looked dreadfully familiar. Pippin's lungs inflated in a seething gasp, and his eyes widened dramatically.

"Gandalf!" he shouted, and he ran towards the old wizard, his cape billowing about him. But, as he drew near, he perceived the look on Gandalf's face — utter impassiveness — and he slowed to a standstill, yet still yards from the throne.

"Gandalf," Pippin repeated, "I thought you were dead."

Gandalf eyed him back without even the commonplace twinkle of his blue eyes — no, they weren't blue anymore, they were gray, a total drab gray — and his mouth twitched ever so slightly. "I am neither dead nor living, Peregrin Took," he proclaimed solemnly, and Pippin shuddered upon hearing his tone. It sounded nothing like the wizard's soft, kind touch — seemingly the voice of a god, so powerful, beautiful yet harsh it was, and it floated and rose, soaring around the lofty columns of the huge bright room, mingling with its many ricocheting reciprocals in the hazy fog that hovered at the distant ceiling. 

"Neither deadnor living?" Pippin stuttered, totally lost. Unexplainably, a force pushed down upon him, on his shoulders, and giving away against it, he fell onto his knees. "H-howwould youjustify that? I don't understand!"

Gandalf did not reply — and Pippin, after quiet some time of going on unanswered, reverted to staring around the large throne room. Strangely, he recognized many of the people who walked about — there was the Lady Galadriel, her husband Celeborn, and their border guard Haldir, and many other Lorien elves; he saw Elrond, accompanied by a large entourage of the members from his council, along with Arwen and Glorfindel; Gimli appeared amongst a huge crowd of dwarves, and Aragorn and Boromir, even, were flanked by many men. And — incredibly — there stood his own parents, Eglantine and Paladin, in a far corner, his many siblings swirling about them; and there, of course, were Frodo and Sam — the former staring at him sadly, the latter wearing a dreary half-smile. Indeed, he saw all the people he had know and recollected, either standing or walking right there in the room — and the only two people that he did not see were Legolas and Merry.

"Where am I?" he asked, alarm rising slowly in his heart. It was all too unreal.

"You are in a place where the Real becomes Unreal, and Hopeis a mere illusion," Gandalf said, and he lifted his head slightly. "Those that come here only come, dreaming of false realities and living within their own fantasies. All in this world, sometimes, or all the times of their lives, belong within this Hall of Illusion — and none yet have fully escaped it. Only those that live and subsist purely by their own will, and not by their own wild aspirations and prayers, may have their bounds with this heavenly and sacred location severed. And with such dark times that come upon us, the entire world walks within these shadowy Halls of Illusion that we both exist in."

"But, Legolas and Merry!" Pippin blurted out, before he could stop himself. "I do not see _them_ here!"

Something feathery light grazed his shoulder right as he finished speaking, and Pippin looked up to see the elf prince himself, extremely fuzzy-looking but recognizable, staring down on him as he bent over; and a slight updraft swirled momentarily at his right. Merry had joined him, standing. 

"Do you see?" said the wizard. "There is no escaping these Halls unless you truly make it, by your own will. And only after escaping here can you even hope to live past your present ordeal, Peregrin Took. It is a trial that everybody must take, once or even several times in his life — and indeed, most — MOST — are doomed to fail, simply because their character is too weak. And yet it does not matter whether they do succeed or fail, for their blurry souls are relatively unimportant and carry no weight upon the world, or how Fate would play out its role in the shaping of things. But _you_, Peregrin Took — " and at that Gandalf raised himself slightly off his throne and leaned forward toward the hobbit. "You are one of the Nine, a companion of the One Ring of Power, and you cannot fail easily. Nor will your failure be taken easily by our world of Arda. This situation you face now IS your trial — and if in your dreams, when your soul forsakes its body and takes flight, you still pray for hope, and for help, which will not even ever come for you, perhaps - you are not going to succeed. It is that simple."

Pippin was terrified — and with a little squeak he sank down. "But — but — what happens if I _do_ fail?!" he cried. 

Without warning, two icy-cold hands went down on Pippin's shoulders and clamped them, tightly, and some of Legolas's hair grazed his forehead. Merry sank down next to him and clasped his right hand. Pippin was utterly bewildered, and frightened — he knew it was a dream he played in now, yet — you weren't supposed to _feel_ other people, holding and steading your shoulders, clutching your hands

"You know what will happen, Peregrin Took," said Gandalf, and suddenly Pippin realized that everybody in the room had stopped in their tracks, and were staring at him — not simply with blank faces, even, but with malevolence. "You _know _what will happen"

"And what if I don't?" Pippin squawked, and he trembled. Legolas's grip on his shoulder tightened. 

The beings opened their mouths, one by one, and cold, mocking laughs sprung from their throats. Pippin panted, eyes opened as big as saucers, and cold sweat dripped down his forehead, wetting his golden curls. 

"_And what if I don't?"_ Pippin almost screamed — and his voice, as if processed by a muffler, immediately degraded from a frenzied yell to a reverberating whisper. The laughs continued, sounding in multitude — and all the beings slowly turned, walking away, and faded soundlessly into the thickening mist.

"GANDALF!!!" Pippin shrieked, but ere the word departed from his mouth the wizard, his staff, the throne that he sat on, all the pillars of the entire room, the marble floor — everything — disappeared, and the golden light now became gray, like the dusky atmosphere that immediately followed the setting of the sun. He leapt up, looked wildly around, and saw that even Legolas and Merry had gone. 

"Oh!" he cried, and he slumped down onto his side. "Ilúvatar damn phantoms, and their obscure ways!" And as soon as his body had given away, a sudden something burst within him, and he found himself jumping up onto his feet, and pacing about in circles. Why did he see all these people, some of whom he thought had already forgotten? What did Gandalf mean, that he was neither living, nor dead? And was he truly obliged to believe the old Maiar's - cacophony gibberish — about somesome trial? And why was Boromir unable to help him, Aragorn fading, Frodo pitying him, Sam smiling at him? 

And why had Legolas and Merry gone? 

Had they abandoned him?

Or had they been taken away from him?

Pippin's entire body racked with sobs, and tears dripped without abandon from his face. He didn't even know why he was crying so hard, and he didn't even care that he was crying so hard — he couldn't even control himself. And all around him, as if sensing his tumultuous emotions, the air grew even colder and darker, and a wind kicked up, its icy fingers slithering beneath his layers of dirty, weather-stained garments. Behind him, he heard eager pat-pats of footfalls, and somewhat reluctantly, he turned around, and looked up, his sniffs and sobs unavailing. Merry once again stood in front of him, a bright light trained upon his form - and this time the phantom apparition wore a smile — a genuine grin.

"Pippin!" Merry greeted jovially. "Why are you crying, my friend?"

Pippin fought hard to master control of his erratic breathing, before he could voice up — and the words lodged in his throat, coming out with difficulty. 

"Everybody has left me," he said vehemently, and though he did not know why he chose to say what he had said, the words were borne into the air anyhow. "Nobody cares about me anymorenobody will stay with me"

The ghost of Merry walked up to Pippin, and took both of his cold, clammy hands into his warm ones, grasping them tightly. "What you say is not true, Pippin!" he rebuked. "_I_ am staying with you. Remember, Pippin? Even though everybody back in the Shire said that Tooks and Brandybucks don't mix, we were as inseparable as brothers! And we _are _brothers, Pip — I am _not_ going to leave you!"

Pippin glared and wrenched his hands from Merry's hold. "And what would I know, of youryour _honesty_ and _sincerity_?" he retorted, still sobbing. "You've said what you've just said a hundred times since we met, and yet you still laughed at me and left me, just a few moments before. And now you're coming back, barely minutes later, to profess your loyalty, your brotherly devotion! What kind of heart do you have, Meriadoc Brandybuck? A hypocrite's heart, or a treacherous heart?"

The smiled on Merry's face immediately vanished, and the look on his countenance was now forlorn. "Pippin," he said gravely, and he placed one hand on his chest. "The heart that I carry in my bosom is true, and only true. I shall always be true to you, Peregrin Took, even if the truth costs me anything that I own — even my very life. I can swear it to you. And to prove it to you for once and for all, I'll take out my heart and show you!"

And with that, he pulled out a long, gleaming Elven knife from the folds of the robe he wore, and plunged it deep into his chest. Thick, red blood spurted out from the stab, and all Pippin saw was Merry — in slow motion — the hand holding the knife handle still gripping it in a white-knuckled grasp — and with one final gasp, his friend turned his eyes up and slumped down to the ground with a hollow _thud_.

The scream that had been imprisoned in Pippin's lungs tore free, and unleashed it lashed through the thick fog in all directions with the sting of flying arrows, a bloodcurdling shriek, a heartrending cry. He pulled Merry up into his arms — sobbing, gasping, crying, and a bittersweet taste gurgled up into his mouth — and he retched. A splat of red liquid, just as red and real as the puddle that began to pool out from Merry's wound, landed right on the ground — and after several convulsive coughs Pippin shrieked:

_"I'm sorry, Merry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'M SORRY!!!"_

"Pippin, Pippin! Wake up, Pippin, wake up! Wake up!"

"I'm sorry!!" Pippin bawled, for the final time, and a bitter freezing suddenly rushed unto him, completely surrounding and drowning him, enveloping him. And, as suddenly as the updraft had come, the visions, the feelings, the sensations, everything — vanished. Pippin's eyes snapped open, and pain suddenly besieged him all over his sore body — the dream had ended.

"Oh, Merry," he whimpered, shaking like a leaf pummeled in a breeze.

"Pippin," returned Merry, and his voice was hoarse. "You were crying out my nameoh Pippin, you spat out some blood!"

"I did?" Pippin said faintly, and with great effort he raised his head slightly. There, on the front of his tunic, was a large, dark stain — and it smelled fresh. A lightheadedness overtook him, upon seeing that horrid sight, and he fell back down — and a cruel, twisted smile convulsed at his lips. 

"Then, it was real."

"What was real, Pip?" came Merry's voice again.

Pippin hesitated, then uttered a soft laugh. "The dreams, the phantomsthe Hall of Illusions"

"What Hall of Illusions?" asked Merry, profound concern registering in his voice. 

"And youstabbing yourselfplunging a knife into a chestso that you could show me your heart."

A pause followed the statement.

_"What?"_

Another pause.

"Pippin, _you're having nightmares_," said Merry.

"Don't _you_ have nightmares?" snapped Pippin. His teeth were starting to cut into his lip.

"At least I don't talk, orspit out bloodbut my point is, Pippin, _nightmares aren't real _—"

"THAT _WAS_ REAL!!!!" Pippin squealed, rage erupting inside him.

No sooner than he had finished shouting an orc cuffed both of them by the collar and dragged them to their feet. Pippin spluttered and more blood flecked his clothes, but the orc either did not notice in the dark night or did not care.

"Up on your feet," it growled menacingly, in a guttural tone. "We have one last bit of marching to do."

Both of the hobbits, still not recovered from either one's shock, felt their hearts palpitate. _One last bit of marching — and then, what? _

The end?

The moon was full, casting a silvery, wanton light onto the plains they now walked upon. During marches, neither hobbit could talk to each other, or think to themselves, even — for the pain and fatigue was too great a thing upon them for any sort of concentration. But this time, Pippin was too far off in his own delusional world, to care, or even feel, the agony that riddled his body — and Merry was both too terrified and worried for his friend, and for himself, to give a care either. And neither knew how long the final segment of their seemingly interminable march across Middle-Earth lasted — but it was only when they had finally halted for the last time, and the orc that pulled them in front stopped, nearly making them run into him, that they realized how much time had passed. Several hours. 

By now the moon had already gone, and the faint tell-tale purple of approaching daybreak graced the horizon, dotted with the last stars of the evening and flecked off by the craggy range of snow-capped mountains. Before them rose a long, black gate, seemingly stretching into infinity from side to other extreme side; and above it, a black tower, four sharp lethal-looking spires clawing at its very pinnacle, shot into the heavens. And then, suddenly, Merry and Pippin finally knew why they had been captured, and where they had been taken to.

The unending gate that loomed before them was the barrier that separated Isengard from the countryside — and the evil-looking tower with the spires was Orthanc. And they had landed right into the clutches of Saruman the White — and what he wanted from them was the One Ring of Power.

Only, they carried no Ring upon themselves.

End Part One

A/N: Well? It shall be up to you reviewers to decide whether you want this fic to go anywhere or not — I don't seem to have much inspiration for this one, I'm just interested in expanding the AU plotline (and toying with supernatural and metaphysical elements). Constructive criticism and flames shall also be accepted. At your request, it shall be updated in a few days — or it shall be deleted. Until later, Namarië, and Kudos! ~ Verok


	2. Without an Explication

Letters for Ithilien: Chapter Two

Without an Explication

Rating: PG-13 (will not be an R for quite some time, perhaps)

A/N: Whoa, review deluge! Thanks to all who submitted one! My Muse is happily singing at me, and I am struggling to keep my typing pace up

Muse: Damn Verok, get yourself some Jumpstart Typing! Even those bimbos in that cheap application can beat you!

Verok: Shaddup or I shall starve you on purpose to slow you down.

So, to come to the point — in request to my readers, here comes Letters for Ithilien: Part Two

And, ohsorry about the delay, after FF.Net deleted one of my stories they banned me from posting anything for a week. Agaaaaah

Let the Madness commence again

Letters for Ithilien

Without an Explication

"Bring them in."

Merry and Pippin were hurled quite forcefully onto the cold stone floor in Orthanc. Right as they were finished being manhandled with, though, there was a sharp _bam_ and an echoed yelp of pain from an orcish throat.

"Imbecile!" roared the voice, and the two hobbits slowly creaked their stiff necks up, inch by inch. Their captor was pinned up high against walls of black obsidian, transfixed against the cruel carvings and evil runes of the chamber — and it wore an absolutely terrified expression on its face. A white figure advanced upon them — yet the two were so riddled with pain and fatigue that they slumped back down into their spread-eagled positions, ere the two feet stopped increments from their heads.

"I apologize sincerely for that disrespectfulness," the voice said again — and this time, it had become soft — and sweet as the coo of a wood pigeon. Pale, gnarled hands reached down — and, as if the two hobbits were but two feather pillows, they were pulled effortlessly to their feet. Behind them a crack and sickening thud were heard as the spell gave way and the orc plummeted to the hard ground.

"Welcome to Orthanc, my dear hobbits," said Saruman the White, and he let go of their arms and placed two fingers under their chins, forcing them to look upward at him. Merry underwent a violent fit of trembling and he stumbled back a few steps, before collapsing back down onto the floor. 

"Come, come now, what is the matter with you?" cried Saruman, in the air of an anxiety-possessed grandfather inquiring after a sick grandson. He stepped forward, again, and tugged Merry up before the hobbit could squirm away; and then he turned to Pippin, who stood nearby, panting and swallowing air as if he were bidding so for his release. 

"What are those?" asked the Maiar, and he put a hand on Pippin's forearm. Pippin instinctively wrenched it back out of his grasp — but his freedom came at great cost, for the sharp nails brushed the cuts and lacerations and he cried out, doubling over and cradling his arm. But the wizard only advanced upon the hobbit, and again tried to take Pippin's arm. 

"There is nothing to be frightened of," he cajoled. "I will not do anything to you, I promise. Just show me your wrist."

Pippin whimpered, and, obligingly, raised his hand. On the wrists, thing as twigs, were deep gashes that spanned its entire circumference — and they were recent, for they were stained bright red, and were accompanied by vermilion smears. Saruman seemed appalled at seeing the wounds — almost as if he had them himself.

"Have they been mistreating you?" he cried. "Cads!" Rage immediately erupted on his face, and he whirled about, wielding his black staff. The orc gave a fresh howl as it was hurled against a pair of tall, menacing doors, bursting clean through them — and several other Uruk-Hai, who had just stepped into the room, were sent sprawling and squawking like ducks tossed around in a storm-besieged lake. 

Pippin refused to believe what he was both seeing and hearing. He simply stood there, eyes watering, mouth ajar and limbs limp.

Saruman uttered a sneer and whirled about again to face the hobbits. His expression then softened, again, so quickly it was almost frightening — and he stepped towards Merry again. This time, the hobbit stumbled backwards, frantically, eyes glimmering with terror.

"No, no, wait," he moaned, and Saruman came to a standstill. "What in Eru's name are you up to? You must be acting — "

"Are you not supposed to throw us down into your caverns, and let us be tortured and mutilated by yourmonsters, before being put to death?" stuttered Pippin, his voice trembling like a war standard caught up by an updraft. "Or are you simply planning to pleasure in finishing us off yourself, first putting on this stupid act of yours?" 

Saruman's eyes widened, before the incredulous expression dropped from his hideous face. He leered at Pippin, only making him shake harder.

"I do admit, what you have proposed is an excellent idea, my dear Halfling," he snarled, and what scant color that remained in Pippin's face vanished as if by magic. "But," he perked up, and faced Merry in a swirl of shimmering white, "that is not my intent. Far from my intent, to be precise. I wouldn't dream of harming you, my dearhobbits."

A fit of terror, accompanied by a reckless surge of strange courage, made Pippin draw himself up to his full height. 

"I would rather be slain by my own hand!" he yelled, fists balling so forcefully that the nails, uncut and long, pierced and broke his skin — making a trickle of fire-red blood inch its way about his palm and drip onto the stone, drop by drop. 

The wizard's mouth twitched. "You accuse me of being untrue?" he said, tone once again wheedling, and he grabbed Pippin's balled hand and prized it open. "You must be aware of what you do to yourself, Master Halfling!"

Pippin bared his teeth at Saruman, and once again yanked himself away. "My body is my own," he retorted, glaring, "and therefore it is mine to choose what I do with it."

The tone in which Pippin had uttered his oath made Merry's shoulders convulse in a shudder. Saruman, however, simply smiled at the seething figure, almost affectionately, and he backed away some.

"You are under an illusion, my dear," he coaxed. "You must remember, Master, that whatever object or living thing, animate or inanimate, residing within these gates and under this roof, belongs to me — not to themselves. You belong not to yourself anymore, but to me, Saruman the White; and thus, you cannot inflict any self-induced injuries onto your body unless it is my wish and command. And, I shall tell you this right now" and he reached out a long arm, extended a long finger, and drew it briefly across Pippin's cheek — "You are such a charming young thing, and you also have such lovely skin — and I would hate — " his eyes wandered over Pippin's scars — "for you to ruin your appearance. You are quite angelic, both of youI would have to admit."

Merry wasn't trembling anymore — he was just properly frightened. 

"_Alright_," he piped up, speaking vehemently in an effort to be brave, though his mouth was dry. "You have your hold on us. We belong to you now. Just do what you want with us and stop this disgusting talk of yours."

Saruman the White looked quite taken aback by Merry's conviction — and so, wearing a very sorrowful look, he nodded weakly and retreated back to his throne. 

"Yes, what you have said is right," he sighed. "Partly right, that is. For you do belong to me, in whole — but I would at least not think of myas something worthy to be labeled — as you have put it — disgusting."

"Then what other way may we label it?" Pippin. "I wouldn't expect somebody like you, Saruman the Traitor, to be capable of bestowing kindness to anybody, even less two Halflings like us, while you have tortured, thrown about, then locked up your own _friend_, Gandalf the Grey."

A strange emotion creeped into Saruman's face upon the mention of Gandalf; and a slightly crazed anger entered his eye. 

"He had the power to aid me, willingly," he spat, and both hobbits blanched. "And he has betrayed me —"

"_He_ did not betray _you_,_ you_ betrayed _him_!" Merry roared.

Saruman waved his arm at the outburst, in an attitude as if he cared not. "Perhaps to you, he was the one who has been betrayed," he remarked, matter-of-factly. "Your standings make you biased, my dear hobbit."

__

And why should we not be biased? Pippin seethed.

"And, tell me — " Saruman said suddenly, "where _is_ Gandalf the Grey?"

Both Merry and Pippin felt as if an ice-cold pail of well water had been emptied down their collars, right at that moment. A horrible pricking erupted in Pippin's eye, and he fought valiantly to restrain it, blinking furiously and trying to have his long eyelashes net anything that had found a way to escape. Nor did he say any words — for his throat was incapable of forming any coherent sounds — bursting into tears in front of Saruman the White was all that was necessary to capsize the entire jar of lama beans.

"We — we don't know," gasped Merry, the blue vein on his temple throbbing prominently unto the point of ghastliness. "And even if we did know — we wouldn't give something like that away to the likes of _you."_

The Istari looked as if he was to push himself out of his chair, claws gripping the arms — but he desisted against rising and fell back. "Ohalright," he faltered, "I understand your feelings on this subject,"— and yet his words served only to terrify the captives more than if he had suddenly grown double in height and threatened them on the point of his black staff. A very long pause ensued and Pippin fancied hearing his thrummeling heartbeat, so loud it was that it pounded in his round hobbit ears and reverberated around the room, beat after beat. _Thump_

"I shall not question you any more," the wizard said at length, and the heartbeats immediately ceased. "But, in the meanwhile, you two must consent to a few things — in exchange for me, first sparing your lives, and secondly, being willing to take good care of you."

Merry gulped. 

"What few things?"

"You two are now my guests of Orthanc — my new pets," he drawled, and a sadistic grin emerged onto his visage. "And, being my objects of pleasure, you know that I may simply dispose of you two at a whim. All you must do to ensure that you continue your lives in comfort is that you obey only me, and promptly — and unless I otherwise wish it, you two shall be confined in your quarters. In there, though, you may do whatever you please, by yourselves, or together — but just keep in mind that I have ways to monitor your actions while in your own privacy."

"Then that is _not_ privacy," retaliated Merry. 

The Istari raised an eyebrow at being berated. "Oh, yes, I admit I've created a bit of a paradox there," he said idly. "But I will check in on you — every now and then — and personally."

He clapped his hands, three times, and at once two orcs appeared, slinking their way towards their master.

"Take the two Masters to theirboudoirs," commanded the wizard, eyes glinting. "And from now on, you two, and every other minion in Orthanc, are to treat the Halflings as their lord, as they would treat me. And if any orc or Uruk-Hai dares molest them or mistreat them, including you — they are to be flayed alive. Is that understood?"

The orcs were obviously not very happy with the arrangements — but between that and have their precious hide being peeled away, they chose the former. 

"Aye, my lord," the two rasped in unison, and they padded over and laid heavily tattooed arms on Merry and Pippin. 

Saruman laughed softly and advanced upon the four, reaching out a robed arm — and then, before he could control himself, Pippin blurted something out.

"Why are you keeping us two?"

The wizard raised a snowy eyebrow, and the fabric of his robe rustled as he shrugged. "For my own" he trailed off — and with a light chuckle he ruffled Pippin's head, and then Merry's. The two simply eyed the Istari, as his swishing white form retreated into the faraway twilight of the hall they stood in — but with incredulity, or malevolence, or pure venomous hatred — it was difficult to justify. 

The room the orcs had led them to was obviously one of the master suites in Orthanc — for it was the only place so far they had seen, in the entire castle, that was anything fit for residing in. There was an overly generous amount of space, too; as the hobbits walked in, they saw many doors leading out of the main chamber, and a double-stairway in front of them that spanned five upper floors. Although the décor was the very same that they had seen all around — grim, dark, morbid and definitely evil-looking — it exulted a sort of twisted yet cruel attractiveness that was hard for one to put their finger on. A flickering yellow, emancipating from the many grotesque candelabras and large candleholders, and the dim shafting from tall rows of heavily-shaded stained-glass windows, were the only sources of light that permeated the otherwise black chamber. 

As soon as the two had walked in, the door behind them, a tall double-portal, had closed, rather sharply and suddenly — and the tell-tale click of a turning lock echoed with the slam throughout the shadowy and lofty spaces. Merry bit his lip and turned around to his friend — and he saw the fatigue-chafed face, and the still-fresh stain of dark red on the front of his weather-stained tunic — and a sudden, unexplainable rush of tiredness consumed him, right then and there.

"Pip?" he croaked.

Pippin could only swallow — he could not bring his large golden eyes to stare back into the fresh peridot orbs of the other. Instead he turned his gaze to the ranks of mullioned windows — and instead of the familiar welling and blurring that was supposed to occur, he only felt a horrid dryness, a burning that made his head swarm with agony.

"I don't even want to talk about it."

End Part Two

Final A/N: Well well well! Don't know what Saruman can possibly be up tobut, oh, you people will receive a reasonable explanation at some point in the story — so don't be baffled. 

I see that quite a few of you were also switching over and reading my other story, "The Redeemer", the tale of Frodo Baggins and Sauron. Just to tell you, I have updated it, but it is in dire need of reviewsI was so low on inspiration, I considered putting it to an end. But if enough reviews come inwell, perhaps I will update it.

Next chapter for this, coming in a few days! 


	3. Breakfast with the Lord

Letters for Ithilien: Chapter Three

Breakfast with the Lord

Rating: PG-13

A/N: There are heavy personal problems dogging me around right now, so please readers, do not be angry if I go on a week or two without updating. This really came out of the blue, and I am A.) busy with goddamned school, B.) even busier on extracurricular activities, C.) very much messed up as of now, emotionally, and D.) left with no whatsoever time, energy or inspiration to do this. My apologiesand now, I give you, for the time being, a little more to satisfy your thirst.

And ohfor those of you who are afraid of *ahem* inappropriate stuff happening, I cannot write about incest and/or graphic adult material, or even hint at it — for I am both young and not the type to do that. And, didn't FF.Net very recently ban this stuff? (I really respect that one decision). 

On with the story.

Letters for Ithilien

Breakfast with the Lord

Merry winced as he sank slowly into the steaming water of the bathtub. It had been brought up for him, somehow and by somebody — freshly, too, for it was extremely hot — into the bathroom that adjoined his own bedroom, adjacent to Pippin's suite. He had forgotten just how many scars and bruises were flecked and streaked across his body — and how dirty he was (he reckoned his last wash was in the Anduin, a long time ago). So dirty, the water turned nearly murky within a few minutes. Fortunately, though, he was provided with soap — and fragrant soap, shockingly (Merry thought it smelled of spruce) — so, without any more scrutinizing or complaint, he scrubbed and cleansed himself well. And as hobbits went, there were few things he was not willing to trade for a bath, and being clean, for once.

He emerged after perhaps half an hour, draped in cotton towels that had also somehow wound up piled on the floor. He then waddled towards the four-poster furniture in the middle of the neighboring room, swathed with canopies of a dark color in the twilight of dawn — and only then did he notice the garment that was laid out, very neatly, on the coverlet. It was a robe — an extremely extravagant robe, too — sewn out of silk and ostentatiously embroidered and embellished with metallic thread and gems — and it was tailored exactly to his height and stature. 

By this time, Merry was already too mundane to give a care to anything that could have come his way — for he had already had enough surprises to last a generous batch of years ahead. So, he simply shrugged, and put the thing on. And at least, it was very comfortable — heavy, but comfortable — and his old clothes were probably tattered and stained with blood, grime and whatnot beyond recognition. 

Pippin was standing outside, in the common that joined their boudoirs, next to a roaring fire. The hobbit was staring intently into the great, dancing vermilion depths — so intently, eyes squinting, as if it were an intriguing puzzle that he longed to solve — and his apparent concentration rendered him oblivious to the rest of the world. Merry noticed that he also wore a robe, similar to his — he saw that it was of a deep blue, dashed with twinkling silver stars that were perhaps pearls and stones of adamant — and that outfit, along with the deadly solemn poise with which he held himself up, and his deep silhouette cast against the walls, made him seem strangely impressive. 

"Pip," gulped Merry. When the latter did not stir, he edged closer, and tentatively waved an arm. "Pippin."

Pippin slowly turned his head around to look at his friend. 

"Merry."

The latter hobbit approached Pippin, quiet save for the silken rustling of his garments.

"Are you alright?"

Pippin stared at him for a few seconds, before a rather sadistic, tight-lipped smile contorted his pallid face.

"Are you asking me this question? Are we not supposed to ask each other?" When Merry appeared to be confused by the comeback, Pippin snorted and raked a few fingers through his hair. "Do you not have a brain, heir of Saradoc?"

Merry balked and withdrew a few steps. His face darkened. 

"Was that an insult, then, scion of Paladin?"

Pippin's mouth opened in an incredulous attitude. "An insult?" he echoed, quietly — and then he burst into laughter — not the precocious hobbit's crop-stealing giggle, or the happy laugh, or even a forced laugh — but it was the cruel ring from the throat of a tyrant, who had just ordered somebody's head to be decapitated. 

"Need we sunder our friendship simply because we cannot _think_ straight and _TALK _STRAIGHT?!!!"

His soft murmurs had crescendoed violently into screams as he finished his sentence. Merry's stomach gave a lurch, but, outside, he looked as if he was merely witnessing the tantrum throes of some spoiled child. Pippin was going crazy. First, his dream, which supposedly was so lifelike that he had retched out bloodand now, this sudden carping

"Wellsince when have we degraded away from first-name terms?" he answered, voice floating lightly. "And since when have friends called friends by anything other than a first name?"

Pippin's eyes opened — or, rather, expanded — and he blinked a few times. The firelight flickered red off his long ginger-colored lashes.

"_Excuse me?"_

Silence.

Just then there was the _boom_ of the heavy double-doors being opened downstairs, and both hobbits jumped. Clicks and footsteps ensued within the mellowing reverberations — and metal rattlings.

"Is anybody there?" rasped a voice.

It was an orc. Quickly, without second thought, Merry and Pippin bounded down the length of the hall for the staircase, and flew down to the first landing level, taking the steps three at a time. Saruman's hench-creature waited upon them, yellow hawk eyes glowing as he fiddled with his long cat's claws.

"What have you come here for?" asked Merry, taking the first initiative. Pippin whipped around at him — he had wanted to ask the orc himself.

"To relay a message from my lord," replied the creature. "He desires your company for breakfast this morning."

Both hobbits' minds were so disoriented at the moment that they had forgotten it was morning, and not nighttime — after all, they had not had dinner the previous evening. Although it was altogether possible that Saruman had arranged to put poison into his food, Merry's stomach gave another lurch — this time, of hunger. 

"And when would he like us to join?"

The orc grinned toothlessly at them. "Right now, if my sires are willing."

Despite having just bickered with each other, Merry and Pippin exchanged an ever-so-brief glance with each other. One's eyes were assenting to the offer — the other's were in opposition.

Pippin stood tall and folded his arms across his chest, making an impressive swirl of blue fabric in the process.

"I'm not going," he quipped.

Merry flickered his eyes toward him.

"What do you think that old monster would do? Force-feed us?" he retaliated, not even processing his reply in his brain first before uttering it.

Pippin let out a hiss like an angry cobra-snake. "If you call him a monster, why, I would all but think that you'd be expecting something of that sort happening," he retorted, quite cockily.

"Ahem, masters," interrupted the orc, meekly; "Lord Saruman has instructed me to give you his assurances that his food is whole and good, and devoid of any designs for its eaters. If he wished you poisoned, then —" and at that the orc grinned even wider. "We would have done that to you while you were still hostages, on the marchnot guests."

Pippin set his jaw, and regarded a tense Merry coldly.

"If I die from an overdose of belladonna, then, it shall be your fault."

Saruman the White was waiting for the two hobbits, in a large circular antechamber surrounded by flickering chandeliers whose main, and only, point of interest, was a broad marble-top table, and the large chairs that were set up around it. It was laid out fully with silver articles and cutlery — elven make, no doubt, which looked strange and utterly out of place in such a forbidding place. If there was yet any food put on the table, it was covered; for Merry and Pippin only saw silver.

"Sit, sit, my dear Halflings," chuckled the wizard in some sort of benevolent attitude, almost, and with a grand sweep he gestured at two chairs, opposite to his own large seat, on which a stack of cushions each had been mounted. Wordless, the hobbits complied — or, tried to comply — when they found that it was no easy feat trying to perch themselves up on top of the slippery, satiny pile, the orcs padded over and lifted them up into them. Merry and Pippin dared not to lay their hands onto the table at all, much less touch anything that was meant for them — and, least of all, dared not look at each other, or at their host.

Saruman sensed their timidity. But, instead of cajoling them, as he had done previously, he simply waved a hand. Five orcs came over, simultaneously, and lifted off the domed coverlets from the serving platters. The warm smell wafted over to Merry and Pippin, and they summoned enough within themselves to look up; waffles and pancakes, drowned in honey and butter; mountains of rolls stuffed with cream and fruit, sprinkled with sugared cinnamon; a bowl of nice-looking potatoes, eggs, a handsome pheasant-bird, oats, toast, and tens of other smaller little articles, like buttered scones and little twisted things that oddly resembled crumpets. The smell differed remarkably little from the scent that they had always woken up to in the Shire — and, before they could recover from their stupefaction, two more orcs came, picked up two large flagons, and preceded to pour a dark liquid into their cups — coffee. Tea swirled into saucers, too; and sugar cubes, cream, even little slices of lemon, were presented. 

"Wait," blurted out Merry, before he could even check himself. Saruman, however, leaned forward, with an air of an uncle who was listening at a dear nephew's earnest request for something. "This is Isengard, not Hobbiton. Howhow do you procure such things?"

Saruman seemed to be confused. Merry blinked, then shook his head.

"I meanI don't suppose orcs eat these thingsdo they?"

The Maiar smiled. "I do suppose neither orcs nor my Uruk-Hai would take a fancy to crumpets," he said, "but neither I nor my assistant can stomach the nourishment they prefer. I still have to eat, every now and then, don't I?"

Pippin frowned, and knitted his brows. 

"Who's your assistant?"

So the Halfling had taken the old Istari by surprise. Saruman recoiled backwards a few inches — and twitched his mouth — but, apart from that, he had admirable self-control.

"My right-handaccomplice," said the wizard, slowly. Then, he smiled. "Why would you two want to concern yourselves with trying to find out who my assistant' is?"

Merry looked enraged.

"_He_ asked, not me," he said, as quick as a shot from Legolas's elven bow.

"Oh, but I am sure you are curious to a certain extent as well!" Pippin stabbed back, turning abruptly in his seat to face Merry. "You should feel — glad — that I asked him, for you!"

"Why —" Merry began, and he raised himself slightly out of his cushions.

"Peace, you two!" cried Saruman hastily, raising both hands as if in a gesture of acquiescence. "Calm yourselves, for I would hate to see you try tokill each other in such a fashion."

"Isn't that what you'd like?" Pippin lashed out, now rebuking Saruman, even. "You'd be rid of two pesky little animals, and two enemies, or at least two friends of your enemy, for that matter."

"Oh, it's best not to give me ideas, young hobbit," returned Saruman. He sighed, and, using his index finger, hoisted up his teacup to take a few sips. "But you do make a point. Iwould only keep you here, if there was purpose in keeping youand a good purpose."

Merry squinted, and frowned.

"What do you mean by a — good' — purpose, may I ask?" inquired he dubiously.

Saruman shifted some in his chair, eyed Merry back in the same fashion, and then laughed. "A good purpose?" he lilted, as if highly amused. "To me, the only good purposes are the ones that have a handsome profit tied to them. I do things only for myselfyou should be able to figure that out."

Despite having diverged gratingly from each other, yet again, Pippin and Merry shot lightening-like looks at each other.

"As I would entreat you to understand," continued Saruman, who had noticed the glance with his keen eyes, "I am really being overly generous to both of you. If it were Sauron's party that you had run into along the Anduin, not mine, my friends, you would have been taken in tortured unto the point that you beg Ilúvatar for your death, in the bowels of Barad-dûr."

Both hobbits were silent. "True," added Merry, after a long pause.

"But, however, and fortunately for you, this is Orthanc you have been taken into, not Barad-dûr," observed Saruman, stroking his beard with his thumb. "And you are also lucky enough to have fallen into the hands of a captor who is always willing to give hisnewly acquired propertya second chance."

Pause. 

"Given" trailed on Saruman"you first adhere to my conditions."

Merry let out a breath, slowly.

"Your conditions?" he echoed.

"Yesmy conditions," said Saruman. "And you must remember, my dear hobbits, my conditions are always, ultimately, drawn out to ensure my benefit — not necessarily that of the latter party. But, for you, I would be willing to make an exception." He leered at the two, showing his teeth. "Soinstead of a set of conditions, mayhapyou could be able to look upon this as an_offer_."

Pippin was no longer straight-faced; he was glaring at Saruman.

"And what if we do not accept your _conditions_?"

Saruman appeared hurt, but right afterwards his attitude dropped and he shrugged, carelessly. 

"OhI suppose, you would simply end up no different than if you were captives of the Lord Sauron," he said, absentmindedly. "Perhaps I would not condemn you to such a tragic death such as those given upon his torture machines — but, indeed, I also have my own ways of making little innocent livesmiserable."

Merry's skin had gone transparent now. Drawing in breath through clenched teeth, he sat up as tall as he could in his chair, and placed both hands upon the table — a sign of defiance.

"What offer?"

End Part Three

A/N: Again, I can only guarantee an update within half a month — no sooner. I'm trying my best, thoughbut until later, dream on, and Ciao! ~ Verok


	4. A Little Note

A Little Note*

(And this is not an ultra-short chapter)

Recently, my schedule's been swamping me out like crazy. At best I could only turn out one installment every two weeks, going at this rate — on top of having a severe case of writer's block. And, to cap the bottle, I am suffering from immense personal problems right now — so you can see, I am quite plagued over here.

What keeps me writing is the feedback. When trouble started, I considered several times about terminating (or at least stalling) my account on Fanfiction.Net — because I just simply couldn't find a willing Muse and the time. The reviews and the readers stopped me from making that decision — because displeasing them, for my personal benefit, is the last thing I would ever want to do. However, for this story (and all my stories, what not) the last Chapter Three was a total flop when it came to the subject of reviews. I've spent hours typing it, drafting it, reading and editing it, and I get two little pieces of feedback in 48 hours. 

So there comes a point where the work exerted exceeds what is returned — and, of course, it is human nature to despise that kind of compromise. This is what I am facing here. So, if you would ever like to see Chapter Four of "Letters for Ithilien" out on FF.Net for all of you to read, please let me know via review. It is a common practice to read a story, even like it, but not review — and to an author, that is potentially the most frustrating thing that can happen. Whenever you submit feedback at any of my fics, remember — you are not doing this because you were forced, but you are simply doing this because you want to give me one more little nudge to turn out the next installment. Heck, if enough reviews come in, I'll post a chapter a day. It is a controlling factor of inspiration, so to speak. After all, I review every single fic I read, no matter if it is terrific, horrible, or if I ever want to see more of it. 

But, of course, if you do not like this little story of mine, terrific. The back button is at the top left-hand corner of your browser. But if you do like it, and want it to continue on, wellyou have an idea of what to do.

The Beleaguered Verok

P.S. heh hehafter re-reading this I sound like a totalbitch. But, I guess, this is my personality — which can either be a good thing or a bad thing. Oh well. 


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